The thin line between courage and madness

My first motorcycle trip to Lofoten was like a snow-covered Disney tale among mountains, seas, fjords – and, yes, exotic toilet visits. On glistening snow-covered roads, I braved snowstorms and freezing temperatures, creating memories I will cherish forever.

When I bought my Sportster, “Little Johnny,” in the autumn of 2019, my plan was to ride to Lofoten that winter. However, I had to wait until winter 2022 to embark on the long-awaited journey. The first wave of the pandemic hit hard, closing the border to Norway. In hindsight, I’m grateful for the delay because it gave me time to fix the rear fender and supports, which I’d initially cut too short for carrying luggage. I also added a front fender, which I had initially dismissed as unnecessary – until I realised that riding in winter without one meant being blasted with snow and slush both from the front and back.

When the borders finally reopened, I decided to set off in mid-February 2022. It was a bitterly cold morning when I started – the thermometer showed minus 29°C. I hoped the weather would warm up a bit before I hit the road. As I approached the Riksgränsen/Björnefjell border, heavy snowfall began, and the road quickly became rutted, though visibility remained decent. After crossing into Norway with a euphoric sense of accomplishment, I was met with a total whiteout. The mountainous area is notoriously tricky at this time of year. I later learned that the road at the Björnefjell border crossing was closed shortly after I passed through.

The next morning, I woke up to a sunny Norway, and my joy was boundless. I took the route past Norway’s national mountain, Stetind, and then a ferry to Lofoten. The sunlight, sea, mountains, bridges, and glimmering white roads created a magical combination. It was a cold, clear day, and it didn’t take long before my fingers felt like popsicles. Near the base of Stetind, I spotted a toilet. Shivering, I got off my bike and approached. It wasn’t a pleasant sight – filthy, no toilet paper, and as cold inside as it was outside. Undressing all my layers felt like an ordeal, but there was no choice. Being desperate for a toilet break on a motorcycle in winter is undeniably worse than in summer.

After a hectic day of unexpected events and missing the ferry, I found myself at the harbour in Bognes. The harbour restaurant was closed, and I was starting to feel cold. I glanced at the small building housing the public toilets. Reluctantly, I stepped inside, not expecting much. To my surprise, the facilities were immaculate and heated. Relieved, I took the opportunity for a quick break. However, the toilet had a ten-minute timer on the door, and when the timer expired, the door flung wide open! Panicked, I leapt into the corner, trousers at my knees. Fortunately, no one was outside, though I could see harbour workers in the distance. After what felt like an eternity, the door eventually closed on its own.

Once I crossed the ferry to Lødingen, my heart overflowed with pride. I was finally on my long-awaited winter journey to experience Lofoten on a motorcycle. The mountains rose like spears from the sea, and the sun began breaking through the clouds as I approached Svolvær. The closer I got to Å, the more breathtaking the scenery became. The colourful houses along the fjords, winding roads, and snowy mountains felt like something out of a dream. At Å, the furthest point on Lofoten, I was greeted by a stunning scene. The low sun, snow-covered mountains, and open sea created contrasts that left me speechless. It truly felt like riding into a Disney fairytale.

The next morning, the wind howled outside my window, and I was tempted to pull the covers over my head. But the journey called, and the road north was as harsh as it was beautiful. On the return trip, I wanted to stop everywhere to photograph sights I had missed earlier. As you might have gathered by now, using the toilet in winter is trickier than in summer, and I have yet another story to share.

At one scenic spot, I stopped to take photos, despite desperately needing a toilet. In the parking area, I noticed a Swiss-registered camper van. The couple inside were thrilled to see a woman riding a Harley Davidson in the middle of winter. They invited me in for tea and offered their camper’s toilet. It was a kind gesture that warmed me both physically and emotionally. I never imagined I’d be invited to use a camper van’s toilet – especially so soon after the pandemic restrictions had lifted.

After two days of sightseeing in the Svolvær area and making new motorcycle friends, I began the journey home. I chose an alternative route to extend the adventure and visit some motorcycle friends in the Harstad region. Taking a ferry to Sortland, I was treated to stunning views all the way to Harstad, where I was warmly welcomed with a freshly ploughed path to the house I would stay in. My friend Geir had arranged for a tractor to clear the way, as the house is typically unused in winter. “If a guest arrives by motorcycle in winter, you make it happen,” he said. That night, “Little Johnny” was parked beside the billiard table.

Waking up after a good night’s sleep, I felt a bit torn about how to tackle the rest of the journey home. With 300 kilometres left, it felt utterly unnecessary to spend another night somewhere along the way, even though I knew it wasn’t the best idea to ride such a distance in these temperatures and during these short days, when the sun is only above the horizon for a few hours. Despite knowing that, I decided to push through—it felt silly to stop for the night just 140 kilometres from home, even if it would’ve been the perfect place for a break. The forecast promised temperatures around -10°C to -15°C all day. In Norway, that kind of cold seeps right into your bones, and once you cross into Sweden, it can go either way. Clear days up in the mountains often mean exceptionally cold ones.

By 9:30, the bike was packed and ready. The sky was bright blue, and the mercury hovered at -12°C. The heated socks I’d bought from Avignon AB before the trip were switched on, so all I had to do was throw on my jacket and helmet and hit the road. “This is going to be great,” I thought. Or not. Where had I put the phone case with all my cards in it? It was simply gone!
I searched everywhere—at least five times—both in the places I’d been and in spots I hadn’t set foot near. I tore through my bag seven times, frantically dug around, and rushed about like a deranged, disoriented hen on the brink of losing it. I even inspected every hole in the billiard table, in case I’d, in some bizarre moment of confusion, hidden the case there. But of course, I hadn’t.

By then, my feet were getting sweaty, and I’d been running around in circles for two hours. I knew the batteries in my socks were unlikely to last the whole ride home now. Frustrated, I pulled up my trousers to switch off the battery pack—and there it was! The phone case with my cards. I’d tucked it into the waistband while packing, and it had somehow migrated down into my thermal trousers. Finally, I could set off.

My feet were already in for a rough ride before I’d even reached Bjerkvik, and I hadn’t yet covered a third of the distance. At a petrol station in Bjerkvik, I stopped to warm up and enjoyed the sun’s rays streaming through the window as I tucked into a sausage and chips.

It was definitely a more pleasant journey across the mountain this time. Despite delays and the batteries in my heated socks giving out, I crossed the Riksgränsen at full speed. That’s where I would have stayed the night if I’d split the journey into two days—but no, no, I was almost home now. Just 140 kilometres left. One of the most poorly thought-out decisions I made on this trip.

At the final fuel stop in Abisko, I wasn’t feeling particularly confident. It was already around -17°C, and the sun was almost hidden behind the mountains. I added extra heat packs to my boots and told myself to power through—only 90 kilometres left. It didn’t take long before the boots started tightening around my feet again; they were shrinking from the cold. I could tell from the sky that it was seriously cold, and I could also hear it from “Little Johnny,” who was struggling to keep going in these freezing conditions. My thoughts turned to how many toes I’d need to amputate when I finally arrived.

It was already dark when I reached home, just south of Kiruna. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I got off the bike, so I did both. I had truly walked the fine line between courage and madness. The temperature read -19°C, which meant it must have been at least -25°C in the cold pockets between Abisko and Kiruna.
I did a quick body check — ten toes, ten fingers, and mentally present. Well, I guess it turned out alright in the end.

Bucket list item checked: Riding through Lofoten on a Harley Davidson in the middle of winter. Check!